


Calamity of Casual Touches

by bewarethesmirk



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Angst, Communication Failure, Humor, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Content, mild breathplay, very mild spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewarethesmirk/pseuds/bewarethesmirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvey touches him more than is strictly necessary.  Now Mike registers each and every ones of these touches, committing them to memory and cataloguing them away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calamity of Casual Touches

**Author's Note:**

> I have picked and prodded at this fic for well over a month and a half. I cannot thank my betas enough for all their support and hard work. Thank you so, so, so much to: [mskatej](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mskatej/pseuds/mskatej), [kim47](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47) and [ChristyCorr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristyCorr). Any remaining errors are my fault. Any feedback, whether positive or concrit, is very welcome.
> 
> Please note the tags for warnings/enticements.
> 
> Movies quotes courtesy of Stand By Me (1986) and Apocalypse Now (1979).

Of all places, the hot dog stand is where it begins.

No, that's wrong. That's when Mike first becomes aware of it.

Mike orders Harvey’s hot dog with the spicy mustard he likes and his own with ketchup, mustard, and onions. Harvey is the middle of a tirade about the offshore accounts Longchamp concealed, and how Longchamp will pay dearly, even if he is their client—especially because he’s their client. 

Harvey reaches out for his hot dog, still talking, his eyebrows furrowed with concentration and anger. As Mike hands it to him, their fingers slip together. It’s just that—just fingers, quick and casual. It shouldn’t be a revelation, but it’s that moment when Mike feels a spark, a shudder down his spine.

Harvey stops speaking, and Mike knows that his shock is on his face. Harvey often likes to remind him that he can always tell what Mike is thinking, but right now Mike is not thinking. There's no thought, just a sharp, terrifying reaction. To cover it up, Mike takes a bite of his hot dog. 

Harvey’s eyes narrow, and he studies Mike like he’s dissecting him. Mike expects a question or a cutting remark, but Harvey just rolls his eyes and continues outlining his—their—retribution against Longchamp.

*

Mike excels at denial when it's necessary, so it's child's play to push away that first incident.

But championing self-denial doesn't erase the razor-sharp memory of that afternoon. 

Now that it’s happened, he’s on guard, waiting for something else to happen. 

He hadn’t noticed before, but Harvey touches him more than is strictly necessary. Now he registers each and every ones of these touches, committing them to memory and cataloguing them away: the slaps to his arm, the warm clasp of Harvey’s hand on his elbow, the touches to his wrist to get his attention, companionable brushes of their shoulders. 

Harvey takes Manhattan by storm, commanding attention with his knife-edged words and perfectly-fitted suits, and he yanks Mike along for the ride.

Mike keeps himself focused on whatever case is at hand—the challenge, the prize—and he tamps down what he’ll not acknowledge, what he won’t give a name. It’s roiling there under the surface, but it takes nearly a week to come to fruition. When it does, it really fucks up his equilibrium.

*

It’s 2:00 AM, an unholy hour even by Pearson Hardman standards, and cans of Red Bull litter Mike's cubicle. He bends almost in half over his desk, his eyesight so blurry he can barely make out the numbers swimming on the page two inches from his face. He switches over to alternating between eating espresso beans and gulping down bitter coffee so hot it scalds his throat.

As per usual, one of Pearson Hardman’s biggest clients is having an emergency. This time some money is missing at a biotech company, and they've asked for the firm to trace the source of the missing funds and deal with it swiftly and quietly. Jessica had given the case to Harvey because after Louis’s vote for Hardman, there'd been no way in hell Louis was going to get his paws on it— financial guru or not. 

The first all-nighter was doable, but this is Mike’s second in a row. He’s shaky, nerves strung tight, and he’s even hallucinating. At one point, he thought he saw Harold at his cubicle, which is a sign he’s going utterly batshit. If he's going to hallucinate anyone, why would it be Harold?

Harvey never had much patience with numbers, so by some sort of lawyer logic, this type of grunt work falls on Mike. All of which would be fine and dandy, if the numbers weren't putting _him_ to sleep.

*

Mike wakes up to a hand on the nape of his neck, and it’s disturbing that he’s thinking _Harvey_ in his pre-conscious state, mind still clutching to sleep.

“Mike,” Harvey says, in a low tone. 

Mike's neck jerks up. When he comes to full awareness, he’s breathing sharply. Fuck, why had he fallen asleep?

“Whoa, easy.” The fingers on his neck— _Harvey’s_ fingers—squeeze tighter. His hand is warm and comfortable but also just this side of domineering. It’s not a shock or a revelation: it’s a full blown kick to the balls that has Mike panting through too-alertness and panic.

“Shit.” Mike scrambles to get his wits about him, glances at his computer for the time, but his screensaver is up. “What time is it?”

“Five,” Harvey says. Mike can’t stop his shiver when Harvey’s fingers brush lightly just above his shirt collar as he pulls away. Mike wonders how desperate it would be to ask Harvey to put his hand back. Maybe he could plead insanity.

Mike spins his chair around, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, and springs of color bloom against the back of his eyelids.

“You look like shit,” Harvey says. Mike opens his eyes and looks up against his better judgment. Of course Harvey is immaculately dressed—a navy suit and under it a white shirt with thin gray stripes and a crimson tie. Mike finds him insanely attractive, and then reminds his groggy, sleep-deprived mind how weird that is, considering that he usually doesn't _find_ men attractive. 

“Thanks,” Mike says and laughs. “I'm not surprised. I probably passed out about two hours ago.”

“Did you find anything yet?” 

“I found a few leads.” Mike retrieves the highlighted printouts and holds them out. “Here.”

Harvey takes them and studies Mike again. He nods as if an important decision has been made. “You have two options.”

“Er, okay?” 

“You’re either going to go home and sleep for a few hours, or you’re going to sleep on the couch in my office."

Mike blinks, a smile creeping onto his face. 

“Not a word. I can change my mind,” Harvey says quickly, interrupting whatever Mike might have said, before grabbing Mike’s arm and leading him to the office. He pushes Mike down on the couch. The well-worn leather creaks a little under Mike’s weight. “Sleep,” Harvey says with a glare. “Don’t go over the numbers in your brain either. We have time.”

“Are you trying to reassure me?” Mike asks as he settles down onto the couch.

Harvey scoffs. “I’m trying to reassure _myself_.” He points again. “Sleep. Oh, and if you dare drool on my couch, I won’t hesitate to kick your ass out."

“Consider me forewarned,” Mike says with a small smile and closes his eyes, thinking maybe he could defy Harvey and go over the numbers until he….falls asleep.

*

At the time, his reasoning seems sound.

It's the week following a blizzard, but warmer temperatures aid in melting the snow. Ice and dirty snow are still present in small mountains at most residential streets, and there's some resulting freeze over, but it's mostly clear. Mike is ready to bike again. He really needs to get around to buying some of those winter wheels. He misses the burning in his legs, the danger of twisting and turning around cabs in less-than-wise maneuvers and the wind whipping against his face. 

He misses it, at least, until he skids on a patch of ice and lands in the street. People rush to make sure he's okay. He hastily gets up, brushes off his suit—of course there's a gaping hole in the knee where the fabric ripped, and isn't that just great? He's never going to hear the end of it. His ass hurts and his wrist is quickly bruising, but otherwise he's fine.

He will, however, not be fine if he's late for that morning's deposition. He hails a cab, locks up his bike and dashes to the office.

He's got ten minutes before the deposition starts. He's relieved when Donna is at her desk, and Harvey is not in his office.

"Where the hell have you been?" she says, then looks him up and down, and her expression changes in an instant. She gets to her feet. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Bike accident." Mike gestures toward his ripped pants and bloody knee. "But I need you to staple this for me."

"I'm sure I didn't just hear you request that I staple your suit."

Mike winces. "Desperate times."

"You are singularly lacking in creativity." She wipes his wound with a disinfectant wipe and presses a band aid to his knee. Then she attacks his pants with a Swingline.

Soon Mike is walking-slash-hobbling to the deposition. Harvey enters the room at the same time. When he sees Mike, he turns. His face is drawn so tight, it looks like it might crack. Harvey opens his mouth, but then his gaze falls to Mike's knee, then up to his hair. Okay, so maybe Mike didn't clean up as well as he thought.

Harvey's brow wrinkles, and he smoothes it out quickly. He speaks low. "Did you get hit by a car?"

"Well—"

"Did you?"

"No. Not exactly."

"And do you need to go to a hospital?" he asks, not without a tinge of sarcasm.

"No." For all of Mike's soreness, he thinks that would be a little dramatic. But Harvey has that market cornered.

"Then you better not be late again," Harvey says and turns on his heel.

Their meeting is with Fred Jenkins, the mogul of a multimillion dollar television news empire—a poorer and much more innocent Rupert Murdoch of sorts. He wants to merge with a minor sports network whose owner isn't ready to settle. The sports network owner, Harold Shilski, is only there because Harvey had convinced him at a sports bar, with rounds of beer and talk of baseball, to be in attendance. Mike had been there to spout off statistics at integral moments.

Mike settles gingerly into a chair next to Harvey, and Harvey starts the line of questioning. Sometimes Harvey pauses so that Mike can interject, but Mike is having trouble concentrating through the ache in his limbs and the fuzziness in his head. Maybe the bike accident jarred his brain after all.

Mike anticipates when Harvey is about to introduce the negotiation proposal they'd drawn up and pulls it out of the folder, handing it to Harvey at the opportune moment. Harvey reaches for it, and the sleeve of Mike's suit slides down, revealing the deep blue-purple bruising his wrist. 

Shilski refuses to sign over his sports network and leaves, raging about high-powered lawyers douches with inflated egos.

Harvey grins.

"Forgive me, Harvey," Fred says, scratching his bald head. "But why the hell are you smiling? That was a shit show."

"That was orchestrated," Mike says.

Harvey looks sidelong at Mike, and then smiles at Fred. "Indeed. That was the fake offer so he thinks the next one is plausible—but really, that offer will be a homerun for _you_."

There's a twinkle in Fred's eye as he stands and shakes Harvey's hand. "Just don't screw it up, or you won't be getting those dugout seats."

"No chance in hell of that," Harvey says, with a winning smile. 

Harvey sees Fred out, and Mike rises from his seat and heads to the door. Harvey stops him with a palm to his chest. Mike's heartbeat spikes underneath it.

"Show it to me," Harvey says, staring down. Looking down at the pile of folders and documents he's carrying, Mike wonders if Harvey might be a smidgen more specific in his requests. 

Harvey rolls his eyes. "Your wrist. Now."

"I'm fine," Mike says, flippant.

"Bullshit." Harvey takes the pile of folders from his hands and lays them on the table. He holds out one palm upright and raises his eyebrows.

Mike sighs. There's no way to get around it without attracting undo suspicion. He places his wrist on Harvey's hand. Harvey's palm is cool against his bruising wrist, and Mike tries not to look, but he's helpless to look anywhere else.

Harvey's fingers slide against the bruise, and Mike shudders. "Sorry," Harvey says.

"It's fine." 

Harvey inspects the inside of Mike's wrist, and he's holding Mike's hand more gently than Mike knew Harvey capable of. 

"How'd you manage to do this to yourself?" Harvey asks.

"Short story: Bike. Ice. Cement."

"You rode your bike?" Harvey tilts his head, looking at Mike like he's some kind of imbecile. "In this weather?"

"Yes, I know," Mike says. "My reasoning was sound at the time."

"Ah," Harvey says, mouth twitching. "So that's what you've been telling yourself?"

"Basically." Mike grins and pulls his wrist away because he can't deal with another moment of Harvey's long fingers grazing over his skin.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Harvey asks, with a sweeping inspection of Mike.

Mike thinks of his sore ass and panics. "Nowhere you're seeing."

Harvey smirks. 

Mike flushes.

Harvey looks him over, long and thorough, as if he is studying him for bodily damage—and perhaps further infractions of stupidity. When he's done, he nods. "Follow me," he says and turns. Mike grabs the papers and follows him to his office.

On his way in, Harvey tells Donna, "Our resident wunderkind thought it was a brilliant idea to bike to work this morning." 

“Well, he works for you. Obviously, he doesn’t have a sense of self-preservation." 

“You know that means you don’t either?” Harvey asks, with an arched eyebrow.

“I’m just biding my time,” Donna says, examining her fingernails and then looks at Mike. “I helped him look more presentable for the deposition.”

Harvey half-smiles. "The staples?"

"The staples," Donna confirms.

"Well, when I'm done with him, make sure he’s not mortally wounded. Otherwise people might think I abuse him."

"You do abuse me. Verbally." 

"Shut up, Mike." Harvey goes into his office, shutting the door behind Mike.

Mike sing-songs, "I don't shut up, I grow up, and when I look at you, I throw up."

When Harvey glowers at him like he can’t quite believe his ears, Mike mimes throwing up.

"If you’re done acting like a three-year-old," Harvey says. Standing behind his desk, he places his palms widely on its surface, like he's trying to emphasize the power wielded by the great Harvey Specter.

Mike just raises an eyebrow.

"You will not tell Jessica about this."

"Um, okay?"

"If I catch wind of you abusing this, you may very well _be_ abused."

Mike grins. "What are you giving me? A lifetime supply of hair gel? A three-piece suit?" Mike snaps his fingers. “Maybe even a manicure?”

Harvey rolls his eyes, reaches into his wallet and pulls out something. He holds it out, gesturing for Mike to take it. 

Mike reaches out for it. It's a card. A black company card. With Harvey's name on it. 

"This is only for company emergencies." Harvey speaks slowly. " _Strictly_ related to the company, which seems to include your transportation. Until the weather improves, you will take a cab to and from work."

"But I can get those special snow tires—"

"You heard me."

"Fine." Mike says, a smile creeping up his face. "You're worried."

"I'm no such thing." Harvey waves a hand. "You're a liability when you don't think, so I'm reducing the likelihood of you injuring yourself. Much as I wish I could, I can’t _make_ you think."

Harvey is opening his laptop, seemingly content that this is the end of the conversation.

Mike's throat is a little dry, and he feels like he needs to say something else. 

"Harvey, I—"

"I know," Harvey says, looks up and he smiles. It's fleeting, but there all the same. Mike leaves, with the card in his wallet and his wrist feeling—if not looking—marginally better.

*

Mike is home with Netflix and a bottle of Merlot. An empty one.

Mike stares at his ceiling. It's more fascinating when he's high. It does nothing for him now. 

Entertainment is what he needs.

With that mission in mind, he takes a cab—on the company card, of course—to Harvey's. The security guy spends a moment on the phone before sending Mike up the private elevator of glass and sex. Sexy glass. Mike leans his hand against the side to keep from falling over.

When he arrives at the top, he walks in, unsure what the protocol is here. Does he just, like, waltz in, or is he supposed to stand awkwardly in the foyer?

"What the hell are you doing here?" Harvey is wearing sweats and a gray t-shirt. His hair looks soft and rumpled, and Mike has an urge to _touch_.

"That's not a nice way to greet a person." Mike grins and leans against the table in the foyer. Sort of. He misses the first time.

"A person, maybe. But you? No." Harvey walks into the kitchen while Mike ambles after him, filling a glass of water and handing it to Mike. "Drink."

"Who died and made you King of Hydration?"

"Really? That's all you've got?" Harvey raises his hand and gestures at Mike. "You're drunk off your ass," Harvey says, steps nearer and his gaze falls. It falls to Mike's _mouth_.

"What?" Mike asks. "No, I'm not—"

Harvey's thumb comes up, brushes against his bottom lip and presses in. Mike's mouth drops open on a gasp, and the tip of Harvey's thumb slides into his mouth a little, probably enough to get it wet, and that rockets Mike right to sobriety. "Harvey—"

Harvey pulls his hand away. "Wine," he says. "Your mouth is red."

"Oh." Mike steadies his breath. "Yeah."

The way Harvey stares at him is unnerving. "Why are you here?"

"Can we watch a movie?"

Both of Harvey's eyebrows rise. "You think I don't have anything better to do?"

Mike shrugs. "What can I say? I'm good company."

"That's debatable," Harvey says, sizing him up for a long moment. 

Mike stares back.

"Fine, you can stay. But I pick the movie."

"As long as it doesn’t suck."

"Also? You're sleeping on the couch. If you die on the street, I could be held liable."

"That's bullshit, and you know it," Mike says.

"Do you _want_ to be thrown out?"

Mike mimes zipping his lips, and Harvey approaches his mammoth DVD collection to choose a suitable selection.

*

Maybe Mike has finally eaten the quota of vendor hot dogs required to erode the human digestive system. After lunch—which has somehow become 4:00 PM—he finds himself with his tie yanked behind his shoulder, emptying the contents of his stomach into a toilet. Just when he thinks he's done, wiping his clammy forehead with scratchy toilet paper, his stomach launches a new assault.

When he's finally done and standing upright, leaning a heavy hand against the stall to remain stable, the bathroom door opens. Mike grimaces, knowing the bathroom reeks of bile and sweat. He hopes whoever it is will take a piss and leave, but no such luck. After several moments of silence, Mike gives up, flushes the toilet and exits the stall.

Kyle leans against the sinks with a smirk in place. Mike wants nothing more than to punch him in his face, but he's not so sure he could manage that right now. His stomach gurgles again and beads of cold sweat form on his neck. 

"I hate the smell of douchebag in the morning." Mike moves closer to the sink. "Could you move so I can wash my hands?"

Kyle acts like Mike hasn't spoken a word. "Phil said you were in here puking your brains out and sobbing."

Mike laughs, hoarse, his throat acrid and sore. "I don't really give a fuck what Phil thinks he heard." Mike steps even closer, trying to reach around Kyle for the soap. He needs to wash his hands and throw cold water on his face.

"You're such a pussy; it’s no wonder Rachel wouldn’t date you for more than two minutes," Kyle says, crossing his arms in front of him. "You spend so much time with Harvey Specter. It does make one wonder if that’s why Rachel dumped your ass." Kyle brushes an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. 

With increasing certainty, Mike knows he could knock Kyle square on his ass. He breathes through his nose carefully. "You’re a little overly invested in my sex life." 

Mike decides he'll go to the bathroom on the next floor. He turns to go, but Kyle grabs his arm, pushes him against the sink until their previous positions are reversed. The world spins, and Mike thinks he very well might hurl on Kyle. It'll serve him right.

"Oh, c'mon," Kyle sneers. "You're just a vacant douche with no strategic know-how and an encyclopedic brain. I hear the only reason you're where you are is because—" the door opens, but Kyle is oblivious, in his element—"you're a talented cocksucker."

Mike looks to the door and couldn't be simultaneously more embarrassed and more grateful that it's Harvey standing there, looking at Kyle like he wants his head on a stick.

"Mike," Harvey says, stepping into the room and screwing his face up at the smell. "I expected you in my office thirty minutes ago to go over the disclosures."

"I finished them. I just got… waylaid."

The corner of Harvey's mouth twitches. "So I can smell. Freshen up, get some water and meet me in my office in fifteen minutes unless you still feel nauseated. In which case: don't." Harvey turns to Kyle. "I hear you have some complaints about my associate?"

Kyle opens his mouth, shuts it and opens it again. "I was merely telling Ross that there are rumors—"

"Nonsense." Harvey places a congenial hand to Kyle's shoulder, shooting a look at Mike. "If you have serious concerns, we should take them to Jessica."

Kyle sputters as Harvey leads him from the bathroom, and Mike is finally free to use the sink. As he rinses his mouth out with water, he imagines Kyle stammering in front of Jessica. Mike smiles weakly in the mirror.

*

Fifteen minutes later, Mike waits in a chair in Harvey's office, clutching the bottle of water Donna had fetched for him. He feels marginally better as he leafs through the disclosures on his lap.

Harvey comes in five minutes later looking highly amused. He closes the door behind him and studies Mike. Harvey sits in the chair next to him, their knees angling toward each other. "You look less like encroaching death."

"That’s reassuring," Mike says, tipping his bottle up in a toast. "Did Kyle get his ass handed to him?"

Harvey cracks a smile. "Jessica made him Louis' errand boy for the next month since he seems to be suffering from an inferiority complex. She also threatened him with a sexual harassment suit if he opens his mouth again."

Mike puts the water bottle down on the table and rubs his hands together. "Excellent. I hope that tool loves working under—I mean _with_ Louis."

Next Mike expects Harvey to ask for the documents or crack a joke about Louis or detail some great and awesome thing Jessica said to Kyle. Instead, Harvey leans forward so that their knees are touching and presses his fingers under Mike's chin, lifting it up. Harvey's fingers are warm against the sensitive skin right below his jaw. Mike stills while Harvey reaches with his other hand and presses the palm flat to Mike's forehead.

_What the fuck?_

His hands are there, and then they're gone, but he can still feel the warmth in their wake, the tingle under his still clammy skin. If he closes his eyes—and they are closed; when did that happen?—he can imagine those same warm, capable fingers cupping the back of his neck and pulling him in. The images are stark, so vivid.

"Mike?" Harvey snaps his fingers in front of Mike's face.

Mike comes back to Harvey's office, eyelids fluttering open, the bright light piercing. On the heels of the phantom feeling of his warm fingers, one look at Harvey's dark eyes amplifies the things Mike wants but cannot have. His stomach twists anew.

Mike swallows it down and hands the disclosures to Harvey, carefully keeping their fingers from brushing, crossing his legs so their knees are no longer pushed together.

*

Mike steps outside of his apartment building, gets blasted in the face by a burst of wind so frigid it steals his breath, and he turns right back around and heads back inside. When he emerges again, he still has on a wool coat over his suit, but now he also has a red scarf with large white snowflakes embroidered on it wrapped around his neck and safeguarding his mouth.

As he's been doing the last few weeks, he takes a cab to work. He grabs a latte from his favorite nearby coffee shop and heads straight up to Harvey's office, where they're supposed to discuss how to close a stubborn widow who is clamoring for all of her late husband's inheritance, much to the dismay of his remaining two siblings.

When he passes Donna, she looks at him and quirks an eyebrow.

"Morning," he says and walks right by. 

Harvey's not in his office, but it's obvious he just stepped out. There's a blues record spinning away. Lester Young, Mike thinks. It's stifling hot in Harvey's office, the windows steaming up with it, so Mike foists his coat off onto the couch. Harvey walks in and stops short.

"What?" Mike asks.

"That—" Harvey seems so appalled that he's struggling for words, and there's a sight you don't see every day. "That is the ugliest scarf I have ever seen."

Mike raises his eyebrows. "I'm sure _that's_ not true." He thinks of the woman he saw in the coffee shop just this morning wearing some kind of blue fuzzy thing around her neck that looked like someone had skinned the Cookie Monster.

"It's absolutely true." Harvey steps forward in three deliberate strides till he's right up in Mike's personal space, something Harvey has failed to recognize more and more lately. "It offends me." 

"Well, I don't really care what you think about my—hey, what the hell are you doing, man?" Mike asks as Harvey's hand go to his scarf and starts to unwind it from around his neck. It's long, wrapped around his neck tightly several times. "Jesus, Harvey," Mike says, trying to bat away his hands, because now Mike is thinking about Harvey winding the scarf _tighter_ around his neck and pushing him against the glass of his window—or maybe using it for other strategic purposes—and _shit_ —

Harvey finishes tackling the scarf of evil and throws it on the couch atop Mike's coat. Mike should back away now, now that Harvey has rid him of his scarf; the scarf that Grammy had made for him, of course, but he's sure Harvey knows that already.

Mike doesn't move, though, because Harvey is staring down at his neck. Mike wonders what his neck has done to offend Harvey now that the scarf has been conquered. Then Harvey reaches out a hand and dips his fingers into the hollow of Mike's throat. 

It's without pretense or thought, from what Mike can discern. Next thing Mike knows, Harvey is pushing even closer, so that Harvey's breath is hot against Mike's cheek. Harvey secures the top button of Mike's shirt, which must've slipped loose, even going so far as to straighten his collar.

His lungs work for oxygen, but it's hard to come by in the already too-hot room, and Harvey's too close, so close that the world feels like it's closing in on him. Mike meets Harvey's eyes when he looks up. Harvey halts, rigid, with his fingers on Mike's tie; they drop to his sides in an abrupt motion like he's been burned, and he backs up quickly.

"Bring me the numbers for the widow case," Harvey orders, and despite the fact that Mike already put them on Harvey's desk last night, he takes the reprieve like the lifeline it is and bolts from the room to print new copies.

He only breathes when he's out of the vicinity of Harvey's office, mind whirring with: _What the fuck just happened?_

*

Ever since that first day at the hot dog stand, Mike’s been sharply aware of each and every time Harvey has touched him—the casual ones, the ones no different from the past, except in how they make Mike feel.

There's been a noticeable change in Harvey since the scarf incident. He's more guarded around Mike than ever—never unfair, just clipped and professional—but the difference is marked. Mike and Harvey have never been _professional_ ; it's a no man's land of strict conversational topics, touch only used—always a last resort— for gaining attention when all other options are exhausted and a swift end to the back-and-forth banter that Mike has come to live and breathe with Harvey, at work and out of it. This new dynamic is so stilted and lacking in their usual fluid groove that Mike has trouble navigating it. It's throwing him off his game at work, and he's sure it's throwing Harvey off his, too.

Mike’s working assumption is that Harvey figured out how Mike reacts to him, and this is his way of dealing: pretending like it's not there.

Harvey and Mike work late one evening on a case that warrants an all hands-on-deck effort that's got everyone at Pearson Hardman tearing their hair out. It's a merger between two colossal banks that involves researching whole rooms of paperwork, editing contracts, working through financials and devising applicable strategies. Donna has long since gone home, Mike and Harvey have eaten takeout Chinese in his office, and they're now looking through a contract for a loophole, a way to argue up the price of the acquisition.

Mike thinks maybe he's found something that could lead them in the right direction, and he hands a document to Harvey. When Harvey reaches for it, their hands clasp on the same place on the paper, but Mike's not paying attention as he hands it over, spouting off numbers as he looks at a print out of a spreadsheet. 

It takes a moment before he realizes that Harvey and his fingers are brushing over the paper Mike's holding out, and that Harvey hasn't taken it for some reason; it's hanging between them, and then when Mike looks up, Harvey pulls back as though he's been stung.

The anger rises in Mike, sharp and sudden. _That's it_.

Mike jumps up, and the paper flutters to the floor. "I've had enough of your bullshit," Mike says, and Harvey looks up at him.

"Excuse me?" Harvey says, dangerous.

"You know what," Mike spits. "I don't give a fuck what you think you've figured out, but I've been professional about it until you started acting like a jackass."

Harvey's mouth is a flat line. “You’re doing a stand-up job of being a jackass right now.”

“Maybe.” Mike sighs, shoulders tense. “But I've had enough of you acting like I'm going to jump you."

Harvey's open falls open a little, his eyebrows coming together. "Mike, what the—"

"We work together, we're friends. Sort of." Mike waves his hands around and paces. "I get it, all right? There's no need for you to act like this is some huge catastrophe."

"You really are an idiot," Harvey says, and there's something calculating on his face.

Mike snorts. "Maybe so, but so are you." Mike grabs his shit and comes to stand right in front of where Harvey's sitting. "I'm going to go home and finish working. Tomorrow I hope we can pretend like this isn't a big deal." Mike offers Harvey a half-smile. He nods through the doors toward Donna's desk. "After all, it's not the first time you’ve dealt with this."

It's a credit to how much Mike must've startled Harvey that the room is silent as Mike leaves, feeling raw and vindicated.

*

Mike refuses to smoke up when he gets home, though the temptation is huge. He does give in to bourbon, though, settling down on his couch and reading through the 400-plus page contract, words imprinting in his brain as he reads, connecting numbers and ideas, dismissingothersdismissing others. It's after 11:30 when there's a knock on the door. It's not just a knock; it's a series of clipped bangs, like the person can't be bothered by doors or waiting, and Mike knows that knock.

He heads to the door and pulls it open as his stomach somersaults. Harvey must have come straight from the office. He's still wearing his suit, and he looks as immaculate as he did at 7:00 AM, but there's a pull to his mouth and a tenseness in his shoulders that give him away.

"When I said I was hoping we could pretend like this wasn't a big deal, I said _tomorrow_." Mike leans against the door frame, crossing his arms, barring Harvey's entrance. "And by tomorrow, I meant at the office."

"This can't wait," Harvey says, looking Mike directly in the eye in a way that he hasn't in weeks, and Mike feels both relieved and terrified.

"Right," he laughs. "Because your word is law."

"Haven't you learned that already?" Harvey says. It's a good attempt at pretense, but it's not fooling Mike. He shoulders past Mike into his apartment.

Harvey stands in the middle of his living room, looking around at the clutter of papers and suit jackets on the floor with a wrinkled nose. There's a littering of empty beer bottles on his coffee table, not to mention a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam, and contract papers all over his couch. Despite it being February, Mike's window is ajar slightly because it helps to keep him awake, letting in the crisp winter chill, the sounds of honks and people yelling on the street filtering in.

"I think you got your wires crossed somewhere," Harvey says, with a raised eyebrow. 

Mike barks out a laugh. "Isn't that convenient?" He steps forward, nearer to Harvey. He's off-kilter, unsure of what's happening, so he bullshits his way through. "Why am I the one with my wires crossed?"

"Because," Harvey says through gritted teeth, "you fail to see what's right in front of your face."

"I really don't have time to sit here and listen to veiled insults, Harvey." Mike nods toward the sofa. "I've got a contract the size of the Bible to weed through, so if you could just get to the point."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Harvey says, latches onto Mike's elbow and jerks him forward till their bodies are pushed together. Mike can't suppress the shock on his face. 

"For someone who thinks he's so smart, you can be ridiculously obtuse." Harvey's breath is warm against his cheek, and Mike's mind tries to work through the shock. Matters are not helped when Harvey grabs Mike's chin with none of the gentleness that was there recently when Mike had been sick or injured. Harvey meets his gaze, and Mike knows what's coming, but doesn't quite believe it. He still doesn't quite believe it when Harvey's eyes are on his mouth, and he's angling Mike's face with a firm grip on his jaw.

And he still doesn't believe it when Harvey nods once after giving him ample time to move away.

Harvey tilts his face just-so until their mouths meet. It's hot and surprisingly soft, and all Mike can think is a dumbstruck _He kissed me_ through the buzz of shocked radio silence.

Then it catches up to him, and he presses further into Harvey, while Harvey bites at his lower lip. Mike groans low in his throat.

Harvey pulls away. Mike forces his eyes open. 

"You want more?" Harvey asks, his fingers tightening on Mike's jaw, the heel of his palm pressed snug against Mike's Adam's Apple. Mike swallows underneath Harvey's hand.

"Now who's an idiot?" Mike says, hoarse.

Harvey tightens his fingers further, moving them down to the base of Mike's throat, and Mike tips his head back on a gasp. "Just answer the question."

"Yes—" Mike chokes out, dick aching in his pants when Harvey flexes his fingers around his throat. "Yeah, I want it."

Harvey's hand clamps even tighter till lack of oxygen becomes a slight impediment, and Harvey grabs and jerks at Mike's hair, their mouths forced together. Their tongues rub against each other in a rough, hard slide that has Mike's bare toes curling in the carpet. He's rocketing forward, fisting his hands in Harvey's suit to stay upright—his other hand goes to Harvey's neck, pushing his nails in as Harvey pushes his tongue deeper into Mike's mouth. 

Mike can play this game, too. As Harvey explores his mouth, Mike flicks his tongue against Harvey's, slow and suggestive, until Harvey groans. 

Mike has always enjoyed getting Harvey's approval; this is no exception. 

Harvey breaks away first. His mouth is bruised, and his hand is still around Mike's neck but loosely so, like he'd forgotten all about it. 

Harvey looks at him, opens his mouth to say something but bites down on whatever he was going to say. He drags Mike over to the bed, pushes him onto it, and Mike falls onto the mattress, heaped high with mounds of dirty clothes and whatever else has accumulated since he last slept in it—it's been a while.

Mike lands on his elbows and looks up at Harvey standing in front of his bed. He's gazing at Mike with a single-minded determination, his eyes dark and pupils dilated. Mike wonders how he's missed it. The way Harvey is looking at him is not unfamiliar, but he usually sees it in a professional environment, buried behind a cool façade—but now that Mike knows, he won't let it go.

Mike shuffles and sweeps the junk off his bed, stuff landing scattered on the floor. Harvey watches in equal parts disgust and amusement.

He leans back on his hands and cocks his head. "I think you should take your clothes off." He makes no attempt to hide his examination of Harvey, taking in his mussed hair, his dark eyes, clenched jaw and his ridiculous three-piece suit—which somehow along the way became ridiculously hot. 

Mike's mouth goes dry as Harvey holds his gaze, and in complete silence, his elegant fingers go to his buttons and undo them one by one. And then Harvey drops his suit jacket over the back of the chair, and yeah, Mike's brain kind of short circuits.

Mike's gaze is drawn to the bulge at the front of Harvey's suit, and Mike is struck with how hot it is to see Harvey this way. His heart rate spikes and his breathing quickens as he scoots closer to the edge of the bed, his gaze on the line of Harvey's dick. Mike wants nothing more in that moment to suck it into his mouth. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at Harvey, wetting his mouth.

"I think you've done a half-assed job," Mike says, when it becomes apparent that Harvey doesn't plan to remove any other clothes fast enough for Mike's liking. He reaches for the bottom button of Harvey's vest, but Harvey bats his hand away. He puts two fingers softly to Mike's left cheekbone. "Tell me what you want."

This position puts Harvey's cock in a direct path to Mike's face and, fuck, his mouth is _watering_ for it. He looks from Harvey's cock, the bulge even thicker than before, to his dark eyes and licks his lips deliberately, pleased when Harvey's gaze catches on his mouth. "I want to suck your dick."

Harvey arches one eyebrow. "Do it then," he says. 

It's a challenge to wrap his brain around the idea that he _can_ , which is even more daunting than if Harvey had told him _no_ or had somehow made him work for it. Based on Harvey's amused smile, Harvey fucking knows it.

Mike is eager to see if he can wipe away that expression from Harvey's face and replace it with something incoherent.

Mike struggles to keep his hands steady as he opens the fly of Harvey's pants, the wool-silk blend soft against his fingers. He unzips them, careful to not catch Harvey's dick, but equally dedicated to brushing against it. Harvey hisses above him, and a smile curls at the corner of Mike's mouth. He pulls the pants down to Harvey's knees, brushing his fingers over his strong thighs, feeling the flex of muscle and the coarse brush of hair against his palms.

"Get on with it," Harvey says above him, voice gruff.

"Patience," Mike says. He undoes the last few buttons of Harvey's shirt and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his navel. Harvey shudders underneath his mouth, and Mike brings his hands up to unbutton Harvey's vest himself while peppering his abdomen with kisses, moving over to where Harvey's right hip juts out over the waistband of his boxer-briefs. He scrapes his teeth over it and relishes the low moan that reverberates from Harvey's throat.

Mike tugs at Harvey's vest until Harvey shucks it off, and then licks at the pale skin of his lower abdomen along the line of his waistband, enjoying the contrast of Harvey underneath his tongue—soft skin and hard muscle. Harvey's cock is fully thickened, the head peeking out at the top when Mike rolls down his waistband, the tip glistening with precome.

Ignoring it for now, Mike lowers his mouth to the base of Harvey's cock, mouthing at it through the cotton, opening his mouth around it, applying the firm, warm pressure of his lips. Harvey makes another sound in his throat, and his fingers thread into the hair at the base of Mike's neck, warm and steady. For some reason, it makes him moan, makes Mike want more, faster. He palms the warm weight of Harvey's balls as he licks the precome from the tip of his cock, musky on his tongue. Harvey clutches even tighter at his hair, and Mike grins, yanking down Harvey's boxer-briefs till they meet his pants at his knees.

Mike takes a long appraisal of Harvey's cock and when he looks up, he smiles. "Now I see why you're so cocksure." Harvey pulls Mike's hair hard enough for Mike to grumble, "Ow," but he presses a kiss to the tip of Harvey's cock again. It's long and thick and flushed red. Harvey's mouth becomes slack as Mike sucks the head into his mouth, fluttering his tongue around it, enjoying the heavy press of the cockhead against his cheek. He takes it in further, wraps his fingers around the base and bobs his head experimentally. 

There’s the sharp taste of Harvey in his mouth, and his fingernails digging into Mike's scalp. Mike sucks harder, sliding his fingers down Harvey's inner thigh softly, the other hand gripping his hip. 

Based on the noises Harvey makes, Mike is doing the job right. He's always been a quick study.

Mike closes his eyes, concentrating on taking Harvey in even deeper, thankful Harvey was controlling himself enough not to thrust too deep. He breathes deeply through his nose, backs off to flick at the slit of Harvey's cock with his tongue. He looks up, jerking Harvey harder, and Harvey's gaze is intense. His fingers fall to Mike's mouth, wet with spit and precome, kiss-swollen. 

"Your mouth," he says, and Mike smiles, takes Harvey's fingers into it, sucking them, curling his tongue around them. "Fuck," Harvey says, pushes his fingers a little deeper, and Mike takes them, though it challenges the threshold of his gag reflex.

"Have you done this before?" he asks, and Mike feels his cheeks burn, still sucking, biting lightly at Harvey's fingers. 

Mike figures there's no use lying, so he shakes his head.

"You're so good," Harvey says, his fingers now loose at the base of Mike's skull, just resting there. Mike moans around his fingers, the approval going to his cock, aching hard in his pants.

Harvey pulls Mike up by his elbows and kisses him thoroughly, licking into his mouth, and the kiss becomes deep and filthy. 

Harvey is way too in control of his motor skills for someone with a cock that hard; he loosens his tie and the soft slithering it makes as it comes undone is one of the hottest sounds Mike has ever heard. It falls to the floor, as does Harvey's shirt. Mike stares at him, at the broad expanse of his chest, his nipples, his hips and leans to mouth at the juncture of Harvey's neck and shoulder, intending to leave a mark there.

Harvey pushes him back with an amused smile. "My turn." His fingers go to Mike's shirt and he finishes unbuttoning it. He slides it off Mike's shoulders while he bites at Mike's jaw. Mike struggles to catch his breath, but then Harvey is lifting his undershirt over Mike's head and Mike raises his arms to help. Mike reaches for his suit pants, unzips them and pulls them down along with his briefs in one go, until he's standing completely naked in front of Harvey. 

Harvey looks at him slowly from head to toe and then, in a voice so low and gravelly Mike shudders, he says, "On the bed, on your stomach. Now."

Mike lowers himself onto the bed. He pushes his head into the pillow, trying not to rub off against the sheets, but he's so fucking hard. Mike's startled when a pair of his jeans go sailing by his head as Harvey apparently clears room behind where Mike's laid out. He listens to the sounds of shoes hitting the floor, clothes rustling. Mike turns his head, trying to see, very aware of the incongruity of Harvey being naked in his apartment.

All he sees is the silhouette of Harvey in the dim lights of his room as he settles onto the bed, the mattress dipping and squeaking a little.

Harvey leans so this chest is stretched across Mike's back, and _oh_ , his skin is hot and _everywhere_ as he leans to whisper in Mike's ear, "Spread your legs for me."

Mike opens his mouth to say something but doesn't have the words, back stiffening, knowing that Harvey can _feel_ it.

"Calm down," Harvey says, licks at his ear. "You'll enjoy this."

Mike is fully aware of each and every point where he and Harvey are touching as Harvey slides down his body. It's insanely intimate, so much so that Mike is shaking with it. Following Harvey's silent instruction to part his thighs—Harvey's hands on each thigh, easing them open—Mike spreads his legs and feels the mattress shift as Harvey settles between them.

Mike has never felt so on display for someone before. His cock pulses and his hips shift against the mattress.

When Mike feels the slight rasp of the beginning of Harvey's stubble against his lower back, he jumps. Harvey presses him down with the heel of his hand against his spine. He presses a chaste kiss to the small of Mike's back, then his hot tongue dips into the indentation above the crack of his ass, and Mike grabs at the sheets. "Harvey—what —"

Harvey's voice is dark with amusement. "I know you're new to this—" he punctuates that with a fucking _bite_ to Mike's left ass cheek "—but surely you're not—" a flick of his tongue to the very top of the crack of Mike's ass "—completely ignorant of the basics of gay sex."

Mike groans as Harvey grabs his ass, squeezes both cheeks in his hands and then _spreads_ him open. 

It takes all of Mike's sustained effort to speak through his heaving breaths: "Rimming isn't limited to gay sex, you know." Mike's brain flounders when trying to think of Harvey doing this with other men, and he ignores the twist in his stomach.

Mike jumps again, damnit, when Harvey's palm hits his ass, sharp and sudden. And then his hips jerk into the bed as Harvey lowers his mouth so close to Mike's ass that Mike can _feel_ his warm breath, and then Harvey spanks him again and when Mike thrusts back, Harvey's right in between his cheeks, licking a long line down his crack; Mike is lost, never before feeling the need to come as urgently as he does now. 

He starts humping against the mattress, feeling only rough cotton, and reaches underneath his body to tug as his cock, but Harvey spanks him _again_ and says, "Arms above your head." Mike complies, crossing his wrists above his head, groaning as Harvey licks up and down his crack, bites at the flesh of his ass, then goes lower, circling the rim of Mike's hole with his tongue. 

Mike has done this a few times to girls, but never imagined how sensitive his ass could be—and when he moans, harsh and loud, Harvey chuckles against his hole before pressing his tongue _into_ it, and Mike can't help when Harvey's name falls from his lips. 

Harvey pulls away just enough to talk, and Mike struggles to hear him. "You're so tight—" and Mike shudders as Harvey fucks his tongue back in, breaches Mike, forcing his tongue in so that Mike is clenching around it. He tries to relax, going boneless and mind going blank, concentrating only on the sensitive skin and Harvey's hot tongue. 

"God, Harvey," Mike says, swallowing thickly, as one of Harvey's fingers tests the resistance of his asshole where it's stretched out around Harvey's tongue. Harvey's thrusting his tongue in still, then he pulls out, flicks it around the rim, where he's slick and open. 

Mike wonders blindly what he tastes like, and he twists around, grabbing at Harvey's neck, glimpsing his reddened lips and dark eyes, and then they're kissing. Mike moans, seeking out the taste of himself in Harvey's mouth, groaning at how filthy it is, and how intimate, at how close Harvey feels.

Harvey groans into the kiss, pulls away and just looks at Mike. Mike's fingers ghost up and down Harvey's neck, then down his back, grasping at his shoulder blades. Harvey's hips jerk when Mike's fingernails dig in and then Harvey meets his gaze, studying him, and then says, "I want to fuck you." He moves so that his cock is against Mike's, and _oh_ , thrusts shallow and slow in a way that's mind numbingly good; so good Mike has forgotten impulse control and his hands are grabbing Harvey's ass— _finally_ ; he's stared at it for months and months—and thrusts back until they've got a steady rhythm going. Mike's mouth is open on little gasps and half broken phrases that he tries to quash but can't. Mike's cock is starting to twitch, and he's got to stop before he comes between them. 

"I want you to fuck me," he says, echoing Harvey's words. He pushes Harvey away before he comes all over him, and scrambles onto weak knees to find the bottle of lube he keeps in his bedroom drawer. It takes a bit of fumbling around to find the lube and a condom.

Harvey is watching him, clearly amused. 

"Get on your back," Mike says. Harvey raises an imperious eyebrow. "Oh, come on, Mr. Macho," Mike says, and Harvey settles back, head on Mike's pillow, and Mike's heart jumps.

Mike straddles Harvey, carefully not touching his erection, but he meets Harvey's eyes and smiles as he spurts lube into his hand and reaches around to carefully push one finger into his ass. Harvey's mouth opens on an unsteady breath as he angles his head and watches Mike's finger disappearing into his body. Mike starts writhing on it a little, trying to stretch himself out—

"Here," Harvey says, sitting up and reaching around Mike and sliding his rough finger in alongside Mike's. Mike closes his eyes and groans around the burning stretch. He's fuller than he's ever been before, and he knows this is nothing—feeling Harvey's finger working alongside his, the angle difficult, their wrists jamming together. Mike removes his finger with a squelch, and Harvey replaces his finger with his own, two fucking into him; and then he hits that spot that Mike has never been able to find properly, and Mike is nearly ricocheting off the bed, it takes him so much by surprise. 

"Mm, good?" Harvey asks, watching his face carefully as he gets Mike ready for him. 

"Are you serious?" Mike means to say something else and all he can get out is " _Jesus Christ_ ," as Harvey presses up against his prostate again, working in a third finger. Mike  
reaches around to bring his hand to the rim so he can _feel_ the stretch of his ass around Harvey's fingers. He's stuffed full. 

Harvey's forehead is sweaty, and Mike can't stop himself: he pushes the hair off his forehead, aware even as he does it how tender it feels, how intimate, but Harvey doesn't say anything, doesn't stop him; he just watches Mike with flushed cheeks and his clever fingers twisting in Mike's ass.

"How does it feel?" Harvey asks, timing it perfectly with another brush against that spot that makes Mike crazy.

"Amazing," Mike gasps. "Full. ."

"Too much?" Harvey asks.

"Are you worried?"

Harvey rolls his eyes because Harvey _would_ roll his eyes while fucking. "I try not to cause undue discomfort during sex." He smirks. "Unless you'd like that."

The very real way in which Mike's dick twitches in response to that says that, yes, he _would_ like that. Harvey smiles knowingly, and then, without announcement, he flips them over without knocking them off of Mike's narrow bed, so that Mike is flat on his back, gasping, and Harvey is above him, looking way too proud of himself for pulling that off.

Mike opens his legs eagerly, and Harvey's between them, taking the lube from where it'd fallen haphazardly away, and he's slicking his dick in his fist, slow and steady. He reaches for the condom Mike had pulled out earlier, and Mike watches, hypnotized, as Harvey slides it onto his dick, which is even redder and thicker now. Mike wonders how the hell it's ever going to fit up his ass.

Harvey pushes his fingers in a few more times, and Mike is so impatient he calls out, "Get the fuck on with it," and Harvey laughs. 

"Eager," he says.

"Well, obviously," Mike says, smiling. "That's why you're here, right?"

Harvey says nothing to that, but he does line up his cock against Mike and presses in with just the head of his cock, and Mike clenches around it. After adjusting to the stretch, Mike anchors himself with his feet on the bed and pushes against Harvey, and Harvey grunts as his dick slides in further. Mike reaches for his cock, but again Harvey bats at his hand and glares. 

"No," he says, and it's so low that Mike shivers.

Harvey works into him slowly, taking his time, and Mike gets even more impatient, bracing his hands on Harvey's shoulders and growls, "I'm not _delicate_ ," and pushes down until Harvey's bottoming out in him and Harvey's mouth is open on a helpless look of pleasure. He's determined to see that look again, to push Harvey to his limits—beyond them.

Harvey pulls Mike's legs around his waist, and Harvey pulls back some, teeth catching his bottom lip as he looks down at Mike intently.

Mike smiles and looks up at Harvey through his eyelashes. "Do you like how I feel?"

"You—absolutely insolent—"

"I'll take that as a yes," and squeezes around Harvey's dick, and Harvey _moans_.

Harvey grabs his ass, lifts him and starts to fuck into him with short abbreviated thrusts. He leans down, biting at Mike's collarbone, his neck, sucking a mark into the hollow of his throat. 

"I also—think you like—my neck," Mike pants.

Harvey stops, forearms bracketing Mike's face. "I'm not fucking you hard enough if you can still speak." 

Harvey leans closer to him, capturing his mouth, fucking his tongue in, slow and easy, in contrast to the deep, hard thrusts of his cock, filling Mike so deep. There's nothing but the slap of skin-on-skin and the smell of sex permeating the air.

"You feel so good around my dick," Harvey says next to his ear and— _finally_ —gets a tight hold on Mike's dick and starts jerking him.

Mike wants to say something coherent and teasing but all he can do is throw his head back and keen as Harvey starts hitting that spot, over and over.

"No one else has done this to you before," he says, thrusting in deep, seating himself there, just _staying_ there, still jerking Mike, and Mike doesn't realize it's a question until Harvey angles Mike's head to look at him, like he needs to know the answer, like all else depends on it.

"No," Mike says. "Just you."

"Yes," Harvey says. And then he's claiming Mike's mouth, stripping his cock so hard that Mike can't do anything but grunt and moan as he comes spectacularly, his cock pulsing between him and Harvey, and then Harvey groans, " _Mike_ , God, you—" and Harvey comes, fingers around Mike's bicep, squeezing, bruising—and that is a different revelation altogether.

Harvey collapses on top of him, and Mike flings his arm around Harvey till they catch their breath. Harvey is weirdly subdued, and he lets himself be pushed to the side and he just looks at Mike in the dim light in the room. He's reaching his fingers out to Mike, opening his mouth, when a ring sounds from the floor.

"Shit," Harvey says, reaching over Mike to root around on the floor where his phone has fallen, and he answers it while he's draped over Mike.

"Jessica," Harvey says, and it's a testament to his acting, how well he pulls off a normal tone. 

Mike can't hear the other end of the conversation, but it's surreal to have Harvey's face so close to his dick while he's talking to the Managing Partner at the firm. And kind of hilarious.

"Yes, I was still awake—working on the merger."

Mike contains his snort, but it's a close thing; so close, in fact, Harvey is glaring at him—and that glare is now doing dangerous things to his dick.

"But it's—" Harvey glances around, finds the analog clock—"2:00 AM." A silence. "Fine, I'll be right there."

Mike groans lowly and flings his arm over his eyes. Harvey pokes his thigh. Hard.

After a few more minutes, he ends the conversation. "We're going back to work." Harvey gets up from the bed and looks around like he expects the help to start dressing him.

"Are you fucking serious?" Mike peers up at him through his fingers.

"Yes," Harvey says, eyes glinting. "I am fucking serious."

Mike groans and pulls himself up from the bed, muscles protesting. "We should shower," he says, his fingers straying to Harvey's collar bone, rubbing there, and Harvey just arches an eyebrow and follows him. 

"Fine. But keep your hands to yourself."

Mike laughs. "As you wish."

As it happens, it's Harvey who can't keep his hands to himself, and they take their time in the shower, rubbing off against each other until Mike comes again with Harvey's voice against his ear, commanding him to come. They take so much time that Jessica calls again wondering where Harvey is, summoning him immediately because their bank merger client is in Germany and wants a conference call now, and lawyers apparently don’t abide by time differences.

Harvey says he'll change his suit in the office, pulling his rumpled shirt from the floor with an air of distaste, and Mike changes into a new one. When he pulls a Red Bull from the fridge, Harvey snatches it out of his hand, and Mike can help but to grin.

*

The good thing about rushing straight to work and laboring frantically all night is that it's all adrenaline and craziness. There is no chance for awkwardness. Harvey and Jessica have a conference call with the client, and Harvey returns to Mike's cubicle to drag him into his office, where he gives Mike a new copy of the contract and again tells him to find a loophole.

The only difference is that Mike catches Harvey glancing at him from his desk, and once, when Harvey slides by him to go out, he "accidentally" brushes against Mike.

Mike finally finds an outlandish and rather obvious loophole around 6:30 AM. Mike puts down his highlighter and walks to Jessica's office, where he knows Harvey is; he secures the top button of his shirt, adjusts his tie and knocks on the door.

"Come in, Mike," Jessica says, curt but not unwelcoming.

"I found something," Mike says.

"Took you long enough," Harvey says, mouth twitching, and Mike glares at him. 

He presents his case, lets Jessica see the contract, and he quotes the language verbatim as she reads along and when he's done, she's smiling.

She looks up at him. "Great work." Mike feels relieved with the praise and he and Harvey go back to his office to prepare for the next steps. This time, it's a casual touch of Harvey's finger to his wrist, and Mike's breath speeds up.

*

The rest of the day continues in the same vein. Mike is busy drafting paperwork for the merger and finally, when everything is wrapped up around 4:00 PM, he heads into Harvey's office, barely able to keep his eyes open. He's resorted to eating espresso beans again.

"You should go home," Harvey says, once Mike hands him the paperwork. Harvey has a mug settled on his desk, steam unfurling from it.

"Yeah." Mike wipes his hand over his forehead. "I'm exhausted." He catches Harvey's gaze, and Mike pinks up a little.

"I'll bet," Harvey says, licks his lips, and Mike leaves before he’s forced to throw something at Harvey.

*

The week continues apace with more cases and more touches. Harvey is back to his old self, just more tactile when he and Mike are in private, and he's sure Donna knows, but she's been on her best behavior thus far. On Friday when Mike is about to leave a little after seven because his brain is no longer functioning and he really needs to go home and jerk off, Harvey shows up.

Harvey claps him on the back because there are other associates around and leads him outside. When the elevator doors close, Harvey says, "Do you have plans tonight?"

Mike stiffens, then blinks. "Nothing exciting. You thinking about robbing the bank?"

"Come over at ten," Harvey says and leaves Mike standing there in the foyer of Pearson Hardman.

*

If Mike said he wasn't nervous as fuck, he'd be lying.

On the way up to Harvey's place, elevator rising slowly, staring out over the city, heart beating a rapid rhythm in his throat. When he reaches the top, he steps in and Harvey greets him.

Well, after a fashion.

"You couldn't even change?" Harvey asks.

"What? You expected me to rush back to my apartment just for you?"

Something sparks in Harvey's eyes. "Well, that's the least you could do if I'm going to feed you."

"Feed?" Mike stutters to a stop as he follows Harvey into the dining room where there is indeed steak and potatoes and wine.

There's a smile erupting over Mike's face, and Mike's stupidly saying, "But I already ate. I didn't know you were cooking."

Harvey lays a hand on his shoulder. "Better get hungry fast then." 

Mike settles at the table and the smells are so appetizing, the wine so delicious, that it doesn't take long before Mike is shoveling food into his mouth.

"You're a really good cook," Mike says.

"Don't sound so surprised." 

"Hey! I just always imagined people cooking for you."

"I get take-out a lot." Harvey spears a piece of tender steak on his fork. "But that doesn't mean I _can't_ cook."

"Touché," Mike says, licks his mouth, and Harvey's gaze follows.

After dinner and cleaning up, which is oddly domestic, Harvey leads him over to the couch and pushes him down.

"If we're going to continue this, we have to be discreet in the office."

Mike opens his mouth, then closes it. "You know, you're really full of yourself. And presumptuous."

Harvey arches an eyebrow, which clearly means, _Really?_

"Okay, fine," Mike says. "Discreet."

"That means," Harvey says, settling down next to him, "not blushing every time I touch you."

“I do not blush.” Mike wades through Harvey’s obvious misdirection and latches onto the core of what he said. "That means you want to continue."

Harvey rolls his eyes, and Mike grabs his neck and kisses the snarky reply right from his mouth, and Harvey's mouth opens under his, pliant. 

He breaks away long enough to say against Harvey's mouth: "You'll have to be discreet, too."

Mike smiles wickedly thinking of all the ways he's going to drive Harvey insane, and how he'll definitely be punished by Harvey for it.

Win-win.


End file.
